


Literacy

by lotsofbigangrybees



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, but they r lil bitches abt it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:10:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21081644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotsofbigangrybees/pseuds/lotsofbigangrybees
Summary: “I see how it is. All this time spent together, for you to tell me ‘you’re fine’? I do believe I know you well enough to see when you’re lying, so do be a dear and tell me the truth.” He moved around the desk to place his hands on Austen’s hips, making another to attempt to hold his gaze.“It’s not important. Besides, you’d find it ridiculous, and I’m not certain I can stand being laughed at more than I already am. I just need some time alone.”





	Literacy

Dorian watched as Austen sat at the desk. It all looked rather comical, the desk being a tad too large. At the end of the day, he was after all, an elf. Not a messiah of legend, the hand of Blessed Andraste Herself, he wasn’t even Inquisitor Lavellan, nor was he Dalish hunter. Rather, he was just Austen. From where he lay across the room, reclined on the lounge, the ‘Inquisitor’ looked very small indeed. Dorian supposed that was a survival tactic of some description. Austen was slight enough that he could easily disappear within the battlefield, setting traps and loosing arrows from wherever he pleased. Dorian himself couldn’t keep a steady eye on his placement, he’d be in front of him one second, scattering grenades into the paths of unsuspecting Venatori, and the next he’d lose an arrow that whistled from behind his field of view, close enough that he could hear it fly past, before it sank directly into the eye of an unwary darkspawn. Dorian had wondered how Austen could manage firing so many arrows so rapidly, until one night he’d seen a peak of what was hidden underneath the armor. That had been when Dorian had stopped imagining the Inquisitor as small, and more so as lithe, and lean. 

A glimpse in camp, after he’d come back from a brief rinse at a nearby river. Austen had been sitting in front of the campfire, rubbing some kind of ointment into his shoulders.  _ And my, what a pair of shoulders _ , Dorian had thought at the time. Defined muscles that rippled with each movement, the definition continuing down the elf’s arms. If Dorian had been staring when Austen turned around, that was between him and the Maker. Austen had blushed and smiled sheepishly, while Dorian just stood there, before muttering something about turning in for the night. If his dreams that evening had turned to images of a proud Dalish hunter, smiling yet again, as Dorian ran his hands across those delicious back and shoulder muscles, that was definitely between him and the Maker. There were a lot of things between them at that point, a vanished deity was awfully good at keeping secrets. He let out a contented sigh, at least some things were out in the open now, and for the better. Well, nothing too perverse, at least. This wasn’t one of Varric’s smutty tales that Cassandra held so dear. There was the occasional stolen kiss, an embrace after a well fought battle, a hand held as they walked. It was all very chaste by his standards. The first time Austen had invited him to his quarters Dorian had been delightfully shocked, it was all very out of character. There had been a wonderful dinner set out, candles and all. Quite romantic. They’d kept conversation, gossiping about other members of the Inquisition, trading tales of their youth, getting closer. When Austen asked if he would like to stay the night, he’d practically screamed his reply, heart hammering as Austen stripped to his underclothes, and pulled Dorian underneath the covers. His heart was hammering in his chest as a calloused hand caressed his cheek, soft lips kissed him sweetly, and eyes became lidded. Only, not the type of lidded eyes Dorian was accustomed to seeing after a kiss. 

Austen had fallen asleep. It seemed the Dalish meaning of ‘staying the night’ and the Tevinter meaning were at odds. Back home, staying the night meant ‘we’ll have somewhat satisfying intercourse, after which you will leave and never mention this to anyone’. Dorian hadn’t pictured literally, ‘staying’ through ‘the night’. But he did. He’d run his fingers lightly through the sleeping elf’s hair, studied the vallaslin upon his cheekbones, and let himself fall into a peaceful sleep, curled around the leader of the Inquisition. 

That wasn’t the last time he’d visited, in fact, over the course of the next few weeks he would spend more time in Austen’s quarters than his own. Eventually, it had become  _ their  _ quarters. How domestic. Nineteen year old Dorian would have gagged at the very idea. 

Currently, he was draped atop a rather comfortable chaise lounge that was situated near the stairwell. He’d grown quite fond of it, and often read there. Much like he was reading right now, in fact. Or rather, pretending to read. He kept glancing over at Austen, mainly due to the exasperated sounds that escaped him every ten or so minutes. The elf was hunched over the desk, finger tracing over the written lines. After the tenth or so of these noises, Dorian snapped his book shut. 

“Forgive me, but is there anything I can help with? Or do you intend to sit there making noises at a piece of paper all evening?” His voice cut across the silence of the room, making Austen jump. “Fenhedis!” He placed the paper down on the desk, and rolled his shoulders back. “Sorry Dorian, it’s just this report. Usually I get a quick and easy debrief, but I’ve been left to my own devices on this one.” He flashed that smile again, although it looked more like a grimace. Dorian stood and stretched, fully abandoning his book. “Why all the frustration, then? It can’t be too long a read. Or is it the handwriting? I’ve found Fereldans often adopt the most quaint chicken scratch.” He swiftly crossed the room, opting to lean against the front of the desk, looking at the report upside down. “Ah-no. The handwriting is fine, I’m just a little tired is all, I’ll pick things up tomorrow morning.” Austen quickly stuffed the report into a drawer, slightly crumpling it in his haste. Dorian frowned. “Is everything alright?” He reached across the desk to tilt Austen’s head up with a finger. His eyes wouldn’t meet Dorian’s. They looked tired, their usual green a little dulled. He shrugged out of Dorian’s hand, and slid the chair back. “I’m fine Dorian, just tired.” 

“I see how it is. All this time spent together, for you to tell me ‘you’re fine’? I do believe I know you well enough to see when you’re lying, so do be a dear and tell me the truth.” He moved around the desk to place his hands on Austen’s hips, making another to attempt to hold his gaze. 

“It’s not important. Besides, you’d find it ridiculous, and I’m not certain I can stand being laughed at more than I already am. I just need some time alone.” Dorian flinched as Austen wriggled away, and watched as he walked out to the balcony, a frigid breeze ruffling his hair. 

“Very well.”  _ Well then. That’s that, I guess. _ Usually they would kick him out after sex, and no feelings would get involved. Not often would it be after two months of sweet domesticity, and all over a piece of paper. Yet, this wasn’t his worst rejection, regardless of how much it stung. 

It had been a mistake to walk out onto the balcony. Not because he regretted leaving Dorian behind, but because the wind was fucking  _ freezing _ . He wasn’t going to walk back in anyways, and if a part of him was hoping that Dorian would follow him out and wrap his arms around him to keep him warm- except he wasn’t thinking that. Because that would imply he regretted telling Dorian to leave, which he didn’t, thanks for asking. It’s just that this was something he really didn’t want him finding out. He hadn’t had much of a chance to get his head around that kind of stuff in the camp. His parents taught him mending and crafting, and then he’d started with archery, on the path to being a hunter. There just wasn’t enough time for… letters. He knew the alphabet, he could recognise the shapes on the paper, he just didn’t know how to make them mean something. Dorian could not find out, that was out of the question. The man always had his nose in a book, always talking about the latest novel in his collection. He lived and breathed  _ I’m very literate thank you very much. _ Whatever that meant. It wouldn’t have even come up if the Inquisition weren’t so busy. He’d avoided having to read the reports for so long, usually relying on his advisors’ summaries, but that wouldn’t be the case this time.  _ Inquisitor, my apologies, but with the preparations for the Winter Palace, we must leave some of the correspondence duties in your hands.  _ Great. Amazing.  _ Of course, Ambassador.  _ Of course they’d all just assumed that he could read and write, why wouldn’t they? In fact, quite a lot of Dalish elves could. Except that they were the healers, lorekeepers, firsts and seconds, or the keeper. So really, a lot of Dalish could read. It just hadn’t been on his to-do list. Hunting and protecting didn’t need a pen and paper, all you needed was your bow, a dagger, and your wits. Austen still needed those things, it’s just that now he also happened to need literacy. He just didn’t know where to go. 

Solas was out of the question, he’d scoff at a Dalish elf being illiterate, so would Sera. The Iron Bull might report it to the Qunari, and that would be a weakness. Cassandra is too scary, and so is Vivienne. Blackwall is too… Blackwall, while Cole probably can’t read either. That left Varric. So be it. He turned inside, and crept under the covers of his bed. It felt cold, and empty, even when compared with the chill from the balcony. Fuck it, he did regret asking Dorian to leave. But by the Dread Wolf, it would have been embarrassing to tell him. He could just imagine the sneer that would paint itself onto Dorian’s features.  _ Don’t they teach the Dalish to read? Even in Tevinter a slave gets an education! My, but the Herald of Andraste can’t even write a letter?  _ He turned his face into the pillow, squashing back the thought. 

_ Tomorrow. I’ll got Varric, and I’ll be able to do it. It will be like I could do it all along, he’ll never know. _

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr! @wwarrdenn


End file.
